


Strictly Speaking

by kam



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Panic Attacks, hannibal may or may not be a cannibal, kadoodling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 14:45:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3294257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kam/pseuds/kam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>i just really wanted to write some hannigram but i have no idea what i'm doing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They aren’t panic attacks, not strictly speaking. Well. That depends, I guess, on what your strictly speaking definition of a panic attack is. They sort of toe the line between panic attacks and flashbacks, I guess, with maybe a bit of dissociative fugue thrown in, just for extra fun. Because God forbid I have something as simple, as _mundane_ , as a panic attack.

Hannibal simply refers to them as ‘episodes’, which is a nice, neat little word and, technically, not wildly inaccurate, despite the implications that _I_ hear, even if no one else does. ‘Episodes,’ as though they’re under control, as though they’re _controllable_ in the first place. ‘Episodes,’ as though they come and pass, as though they disappear after a while. ‘Episodes,’ as though they aren’t tearing apart what little semblance of control I have left.

 

There are bodies, so many bodies, but no blood. Wait, no. There are bodies AND blood, too much blood, an ocean of blood, lapping gently at the shore and so many bodies, piled together, stacked, tied together – a totem pole of bodies by a sea of blood, and the tide is coming in. The tide is coming in, and I cannot walk away. I am drawn forwards, drawn to this monument, a life’s work laid out here on display. Displayed for whom? Is this my design? The blood pools in my footprints and the wind kicks up, a warm spray tingeing my face and hair deep red. I can smell it, taste the copper, and when I wipe my eyes, my hands come away dripping. Behind me, the pile of bodies shifts and whispers, ten, twenty voices calling out, near-silent and rusty with disuse but still capable of a single word, a harsh command that knocks me to my knees in the crimson ocean that surrounds me now:

“See.”

 

He had, up until a moment ago, been sitting quite calmly, curled into one of the armchairs with a book, waiting quietly for me to finish transcribing the notes from my last session of the day. I was alerted to the change in his condition by the sound of the book falling to the floor. When I glanced up, he was staring straight ahead, face slack, eyes fixed on a distant point on the wall as his hands clenched and unclenched convulsively in his lap.

“Will?”

I didn’t expect a response, and he didn’t offer one, though his jaw began to work and he swallowed several times. His chest rose and fell shallowly as he struggled for breath, his sympathetic nervous system struggling to respond to the invisible threat. I left my notes, coming around the desk to crouch near him. He continued to stare straight ahead, choking silently on unsaid words as he struggled, caught in a perversion of a memory. With no warning, his hands came up, scrubbing roughly at his face, and he finally looked away from the wall, turning his gaze down to them as he let them fall away. A look of terror crossed his features, and a sound of visceral horror worked its way from deep in his chest. He glanced over his shoulder, the panic evident on his face, before slipping from the chair to kneel on the floor. Intentionally or not, this placed him almost in my lap, and I let my arms circle him almost out of habit, pulling him close as he shook and sobbed, the fugue lifting as suddenly as it descended, leaving him wrecked and exhausted.

 

“There are so many bodies,”

my voice was raw and painful, and Hannibal made a gentle noise, pulling me closer. He had taken advantage of the weak exhaustion that always followed an ‘episode’ to manoeuvre me from the office into the car, taking me to his home and leading me to bed. We were curled together, him half-sitting, propped against pillows, while I lay with my head against his chest. I listened to the sound of his heartbeat and the steadiness of his breath and tried desperately to erase the red tint that overtook everything when I closed my eyes.

“Bodies you have seen before, or new additions?”

His voice rumbled out from beneath my head, and I sighed, pressing tighter to him, wishing not for the first time that I could simply disappear into him, become part of that carefully regimented, meticulously ordered existence.

“The display by the ocean, this time.”

“And the ocean was…”

“Blood.”

“What do you take away from this?”

“I can’t stop. I can’t… Jack says I’m saving lives.”

“At what cost?”

“At any cost.”

He made a noise that was far too dignified to be a snort, pressing a kiss to my head.

“You know what I will say.”

“You don’t care about their lives, you only care about mine.”

He nodded, nuzzling at my hair gently as I folded farther into him.

“I have to try, Hannibal. If I can help, I have to try.”

“I am well aware that I cannot convince you otherwise, Will, just as you are aware that I will not pass up an opportunity to register my disapproval.”

“Noted,”

with a sudden burst of energy, I leaned up to press a gentle kiss to his lips, and he tightened his arms around me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~i'm so so so sorry~~  
>  jk i don't care
> 
>  
> 
> ~~ps i know you won't believe it, but i'm considering writing more~~   
> ~~shocking, yes, as i never do that it's so out of character for me  
>  ~~so the point is in a little while it may not end quite this abrubtly~~~~


	2. Chapter 2

I’m tired. Exhausted, really. Sleep doesn’t come easy, and the ‘episodes’ always take whatever I have left out of me. That doesn’t matter. Kissing Hannibal is never enough.

He helps me, steady hands on my hips as I clumsily throw a leg over his waist, shifting my weight until I’m straddling him fully. He lets me kiss him, strong thumbs stroking over my hipbones, lips pliant under mine.

“You ought to rest,”

his voice is quiet, gentle, his suggestion practical. He knows I won’t listen, but he needs to have said it. He needs to offer me the choice, needs it to be my decision. He needs to know I want it.

 

His full weight atop me is barely enough to press me to the bed, his hipbones sharp beneath my fingers, and I make a mental note to monitor his food intake. I have no idea, I realize, whether he’s eaten today. The thought is driven from my mind, however, as he rocks his hips down against mine, pressing desperate kisses to my lips, my jaw, my neck.

“Need you,”

he murmurs, biting sharply at my collarbone through my undershirt. His mouth leaves a wet patch in the fabric, and I sigh, pretending resignation as he pulls at the hem, helping him remove the apparently offending garment. This is not my favourite of his ways, this desperate, needy creature, but I cannot say I do not enjoy him.

I am patient, restrained, merely slipping my hands under his shirt to feel his warm skin as he nuzzles into my chest, pressing kisses to the skin beneath his lips. I am not above pushing, insisting – instigating, even – when the situation calls for it. Not today. Today, this situation, calls for calm, for allowance.

 

His skin is warm, soft despite the hard muscle beneath. The soft, dark hair that accentuates the lines of his chest tickles my face, my lips, and I tug gently at it, because I know it will make him gasp and press his hips up against me as he tightens his hold on my own. I press my face to him, breathing in his scent for long moments, before I sit up to pull my own shirt off. The more of my own skin I can press to his, the more grounded I feel. He is my paddle, the only thing keeping me safe and sane – as sane as I can be.

The fire in my belly spreads throughout my body, a slow ache that threatens to consume me. He won’t let it. He knows, when it becomes overwhelming, maybe by the way the tilt of my hips turns desperate, maybe by the sounds I make, maybe by something else, I don’t _care_ , it doesn’t _matter_. All that matters is that he _knows_ , and he turns us over, settling between my legs and pressing his lips to mine as he works his bottoms off before stripping mine away. His hands are strong, possessive, as he runs them over my body, tracing the shape of my ribs, my waist, before settling back on my hips, holding me in place as he aligns us.

“You will not fall apart without me,”

he promises, pulling back to hold my eyes for just a moment, not long enough to be truly uncomfortable but enough to make me squirm beneath him. My cock drags against his as I do, and he bends his head, pressing his teeth to my skin as I let my eyes fall closed.

“Please,”

I whisper, and he rumbles out a deep noise as he begins to roll his hips against mine. It’s perfect, it always is, the catch and drag of skin against skin, the pressure of his weight holding me to the bed, the sharp sting of his bite to keep me focused. In this, I feel safe.

 

He burns beneath me, eyes closed, flushed from cheek to chest, lip caught savagely between teeth. His fingers scrabble for purchase against my back, nails dragging against my skin. He _will_ fall apart, that which he fears so greatly, but it will not be because of Jack or the crime scenes or his own mind. It will be because of me, because I have taken him apart. Because he has let me.

Tired as he is, I want this over quickly. Shifting my weight to one arm, I reach between us, catching both our lengths together. He whimpers, soft sounds falling from his lips as his hips snap up, nails digging into my shoulders.

“Please, Hannibal, please,”

his voice is sweet and broken and I kiss the pleas from his mouth, tightening my grip, matching my thrusts to his. He shudders, biting at my lips as sharply as he bites his own, before pulling back, pressing his head to the pillow, turning this way and that, desperate before his spine straightens, his eyes snap open as his hips snap up one more time. The sound that spills from him is high and tight and sounds vaguely like my name, though I can’t be certain. Gently, I work him through it, finding my own release as he slicks my hand, his stomach and chest.

 

He moves to pull away but I wrap my arms tight around his neck, pulling him down against me despite the mess this creates. He wrinkles his nose at it but does not explicitly protest.

“You need sleep.”

“I can sleep like this.”

He sighs heavily, making a token effort to rise.

“Don’t go,”

I murmur, and he leans down to kiss me, settling against me.

“This position will not be comfortable for long. I am much heavier than you.”

“I know. But it feels good right now. I like it. You covering me.”

He sighs again, relaxing marginally against me but holding his full weight off me.

“Go to sleep, Will. I will be here when you wake.”

And I do, because I can, because he is the only one I trust to keep that promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ha, look at that.  
> that didn't take me long at all.
> 
> i mean, it's ~~probably~~ terrible, but i _did_ it.


End file.
